


Dante Swordf*cker

by pluto



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-24
Updated: 2006-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluto/pseuds/pluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dante has some private time with his sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dante Swordf*cker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoAsakura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/gifts).



> Warnings: Unbetaed. Full of crude language, and some nasty imagery/graphic description of violence/sex.

Dante considers himself a tough guy, a manly man. He likes his meat bloody, his violence uncensored and in your face. Digs zombie movies and has girlie posters on the walls. Fucks, none of this making love bullshit. Eats his pizza with enough habañeros to send an entire ubermacho firebrigade crying like little girls.

Or as he's sometimes bragged: if Dante whipped out his dick and slapped it on the table, the table would split, and then the room the table was in, and then the entire building, and if he was really putting a little effort into it, probably the tectonic plate they were standing on as well.

Tough guy Dante Sparda, half-demon ass-kicking all-around badass, is currently pinned to the floor on his back moaning like a well-fucked hooker. His fingers slip in the viscous wet on the surface of the instrument impaling him while the heels of his 100% real demonskin leather boots squeak black track marks over the none-too-clean floor. His head is back, his eyelashes trembling, his adam's apple bobbing in the sweet line of his arched neck.

On slow nights like this when Trish is out pulling any jobs they have and there are no phones ringing and Dante is long bored with Ultimate Real Gladiator and that really hot lesbian porn Trish has no idea is stuffed under the middle cushion of the sofa, Dante likes to mess around with his sword. He practices in the big main room of "Devil Never Cry" or sometimes he tracks down some minor demon (there were always some out there, somewhere, trying to cause havoc or break through to the human world) and gets them both good and bloody. He gets Alastor humming hard and good in his hands, singing that song of want and greed and bloodthirsty bastardness he knows like his own soul. And then when they're both vibrating, trembling like bugs caught in an undercurrent, Dante releases his will over the singing, living demon-blade and lets it have at him.

Alastor always comes around so hard and fast Dante has that moment of pure, blissful certainty that this time, he'll somehow die. The feeling makes his cock rock hard in an instant; in the next, he gets foot after foot of piss-and-blood slaked steel ramming into his body, raking and snapping bone sometimes, severing spinal cord, bursting past the foul contents of intestines into his gut or piercing the inflating sacs of his lungs.

The pain of it is as double edged as Alastor's blade, thrusting him closer to explosive orgasm and also jerking him back from it. It's never enough though; he hooks his hands around Alastor's dragon hilt or sometimes on the cutting blade itself, and jerks himself back and forth on it, crudely, like a schoolboy first figuring out what really feels good. The sword itself knows him too well; once upon a time it had twisted and tried to cut worse and deeper, to open him up or split him apart, but he only came faster than ever then, hot acrid semen mixing with the iron tang of blood. Now it stills and lets him suffer, drawing out his time, letting him thrash in noisy frustration as he tries to find that magic point where time stands still and the earth opens up and he finally gets his rocks off. Eventually he closes his power over Alastor again, sending the blade shivering inside and over and through him, electricity crackling between them. He comes so hard still laced up in his leather pants that dribbles of hot spunk ooze between the thongs.

Like any true manly man, immediately after Dante's shot his load he goes kitten-weak and slumps to the floor, jerking Alastor free and dropping it beside him, still bloody and used. He dozes a little while, back to the sword, dimly aware of its resentment in the back of his mind; but he doesn't pay it much mind. He gets up when the floor is too hard and he finally notices his pants feel pretty disgusting and his stomach is really, really growling.

He considers the perfect end to the night one slice of cold pizza rescued from the back of the fridge, and makes mental note to mop the floor before Trish gets back.


End file.
